


I Could Liken You to a Werwolf

by feralpixiedreamgirl



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Underage Drinking, Victim Blaming, age gap, beta reading is for people with morals, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralpixiedreamgirl/pseuds/feralpixiedreamgirl
Summary: A twink and a predator walk into a bar.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	I Could Liken You to a Werwolf

**Author's Note:**

> *sighs* it's peter parker debauchery hours again

When Mr. Beck had offered Peter the drink, it had made him feel like a grown-up, like they were two men talking at eye level. Now, after drinking it, and the second one Mr. Beck had handed him, he mostly feels warm and a bit drowsy. He can’t really follow what Mr. Beck is talking about, too fascinated by the dance his beautiful hands do whenever Mr. Beck arrives at a particular point in his story, but he’s pretty sure he manages to nod and laugh at the right parts.

Mr. Beck’s eyes gleam with excitement. He’s clearly happy to entertain Peter, which makes Peter happy in turn, his belly a fluttery mess. The man orders himself another round, something less strong for Peter (he throws Peter a wink as he tells him so) and the next time he wants to underline something he does so by grabbing Peter’s knee. Peter jerks, nearly falling off the bar stool. He blushes aggressively, immediately feeling like a complete idiot, his embarrassment exacerbated tenfold when Mr. Beck apologizes profusely and declares that it’s probably time to get him back to the hotel.

As the cold night air hits his flushed skin, he realizes how drunk he really is. What was in those cocktails anyway? He’s very grateful when Mr. Beck slips one arm around his waist to support his weight. His overreaction has already been forgiven.

In front of Peter’s door Mr. Beck fishes the key card from the pocket of Peter’s pants, making his heartbeat race and his gaze drop to the floor as he still hangs from the older man – during the walk back he had developed a distinct distrust in his knees and feet. Mr. Beck maneuvers him over the threshold and to the bed, where he drops him like a sack of potatoes. The world rushes past him faster then Peter is accustomed to and his stomach churns. For a terrifying second Peter is sure he’s gonna be sick. He trains his eyes on the ceiling as not to disturb the fog in his head or the nervousness in his stomach. A smiling Mr. Beck materializes in his field of vision: “How are you doing there, pal?” “’M fine,” Peter slurs unconvincingly and Mr. Beck laughs at him. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna help you out.”

He disappears again but Peter can feel him working his shoes off, opening his trousers, pulling them off. Peter blinks against the dizziness, the question of what’s happening heavy on his tongue. “I’m just gonna get you ready for bed,” Mr. Beck says, his voice bright, airy. Panic swooshes in Peter’s ears. He tries to get up, to stop Mr. Beck from realizing what his warm calloused hands handling him so casually are doing to Peter’s cock, but his muscles have stopped obeying him. It doesn’t matter anyway, Mr. Beck flips him over without another word.

Wordlessly, he takes Peter’s arms and then ties them to the bed posts, one after the other. It might be the complete nonchalance, but before Peter can object, the knot is so tight, the otherwise soft material bites into his wrists.

“I-,“ Peter tries again, attempts to get his legs under him, but Mr. Beck pushes him down with both hands on his ass. He doesn’t let go when Peter ‘umpfhs’ back down on the mattress. Instead he squeezes the soft flesh, then worms his fingers under the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down.

“Please”, Peter whines. He just wants to go to sleep, forget this has ever happened. Mr. Beck shushes him. “Oh honey, you don’t have anything to be be embarrassed about.” He smacks his now bare ass with a flat hand, making Peter rock his erection into the sheets.

Peter wants to crawl in on himself. He knows there are tears forming in the corners of his eyes and he brushes his face across the linen harshly to get rid of them.

Nothing could have prepared him however for the wave of shame that overwhelms hims when Mr. Beck spreads his ass cheeks and rubs his thumb across his hole. Peter strains against the bindings till it hurts, fruitlessly kicks his legs backwards. Mr. Beck catches them easily, opens them up to make room for himself between them on the bed, uses bruising hands to hoist him up by the waist. Peter can feel him leaning over his back, suffocating him with the musky smell that had made him feel so inciting only an hour ago. “Oh, don’t be like that”, he mocks him before he gives his cock a too hard squeeze. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Peter closes his eyes, concentrates on his breathing. He just really doesn’t want to puke during his first time.

There are noises behind him but they barely register. Metallic teeth opening, the rustling of clothes, plastic being ripped, but Peter doesn’t notice, he’s breathing. In and out. The fabric grows moist and that’s his breath, that’s fine, in and out.

When there’s a pressure against his hole he violently snaps back, his whole body clenching with it. He’s wet, he realizes, slick, something dribbling down his taint and into the sheets. He hopes it doesn’t leave a stain.

Mr. Beck is right next to his ear, so close Peter can feel the warmth of his lips: “Come on, baby, relax for me.” Peter shivers. He tries, he really, really tries, but it still hurts when Mr. Beck pushes past the tight ring of muscle. Mr. Beck makes a noise somewhere above him that Peter doesn’t recognize. His whole body is enveloped by the bigger man, making him feel incredibly small. Next to his head he can see Mr. Beck gripping the sheet, his arm shaking.

“Oh my God, you’re so fucking”, Mr. Beck audibly breathes out, “so fucking tight.” It’s still painful even after Peter gets used to the stretch, when Mr. Beck thrusts forward once more, burying himself to the tilt. He’s crying in earnest now, big tears running down the side of his face, forming little dark patches in the fabric.

Mr. Beck groans, then leans forward to leave a line of kisses in the sweat of Peter’s neck. He whispers something into the skin, but Peter can only concentrate on the way the pain of the intrusion slowly, finally gives over to something akin to pleasure as Mr. Beck bottoms out, pushes back in again, picks up the pace almost carefully.

“You feel so good, baby boy. Could fuck you all night,” Mr. Beck tells him and Peter's blood pulses with the praise, burning away a bit of the shame. He mewls when Mr. Beck reaches around him, takes his cock in his big hand again. It doesn’t take long, he’s already sleek with pre-cum and he’s throbbing and Mr. Beck knows exactly how to touch him. As he fucks him, he lets Peter fuck his hand, holds him steady with his other one, pistons his hips faster and faster.

Peter’s orgasm rips through him, leaves him with a cry. He squeezes his eyes shut, pushes his nose into the bed, lungs heaving. Mr. Beck fucks him through it, keeps going even after all muscle tension has left him, after he can’t even feel him anymore.

Peter doesn’t know how long it takes before Mr. Beck is done. It’s just that suddenly the man collapses on top of him, sweaty and heavy, and Peter desperately wants to push him off but can’t so much as make his mouth form words. He has the weirdest thought that the weight of him will compress his chest and crumble his lungs.

Mr. Beck presses his nose into Peter’s hair before finally straightening up. The sensation of him pulling out feels so disgusting to Peter that it makes him shudder.

He listens to Mr. Beck putting his clothe back on but doesn’t move to do the same, despite the hotel room feeling chilly on his moist skin. The noise of the traffic outside is a low hum.

There’s blanket being spread out over his back. Mr. Beck wordlessly turns off the tiny lamp on the bedside table, shrouding them both in darkness. “Good night, Peter,” he says, voice chipper again. He closes the door behind him, the lock mechanism clicking automatically.

Peter is still cold.

He can feel Mr. Beck’s cum dripping out of him.

He pulls the blanket over his head.

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to the big-brained nonnie that send me:
> 
> _kink: someone older and seemingly kind intoxicates you and takes advantage by taking you up to the bedroom. Tying you up and slowly forces you into giving to pleasure as they fuck you in a sweet but brutal way._
> 
>  _They come inside you and leaves you with cum dripping out of your hole._
> 
> my tumblr recently got nuked [but i'm back and worse than ever](https://feral-pixie.tumblr.com/)


End file.
